


Bring Him Home

by popfly



Series: We've Got Ourselves a Series [1]
Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-11
Updated: 2018-10-11
Packaged: 2019-07-29 17:30:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16269008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/popfly/pseuds/popfly
Summary: Between series, Christian and Lorenzo take a little time to themselves.





	Bring Him Home

**Author's Note:**

> Legit just an excuse for me to write porn. If y'all don't know these guys yet, get to know them.

It happens constantly now, the MVP chant breaking out. Sometimes it’s only one or two guys, sometimes it’s the whole team. Sometimes it’s genuine, sometimes it’s teasing. If Christian fumbles a kneepad when he’s getting dressed, or drops a routine catch when he’s shagging flies during BP. He loves it every time, the way the guys look at him, crooked grins and eyes shining.

He’s in the cage, gloved hands twisting around the handle of the bat, low hum of conversation around him. He’s been taking swings for several minutes already, easy ones mostly, soft contact to give the infielders a workout. Brauny’s on the other side of the chain link, bat in hand, looking impatient. There’s sweat gathering under Christian’s arms, in the small of his back. It’s so humid out, more like Florida than Wisconsin in October. Or so he’s heard.

Carlos throws him a good pitch, right down the middle. Christian leans back, takes a big cut. The ball sails out into left field, over the heads of the guys making comical leaps, and rattles around in the empty bleachers.

“Yeli,” Counsell calls. “Stretch it out.”

Christian leans his bat against the cage, accepts the back slaps from Brauny and the other guys loitering, waiting for their turns. The bullpen guys doing windmills out in right are chanting, “MVP! MVP! MVP!” as Christian jogs down the first base line and picks a patch of grass to spread out in.

He’s halfway through a sort-of routine, part muscle memory and part consciously trying to remember the motions the trainers usually guide him through, when he rolls over onto his back and sees Lorenzo standing above him.

“Hey,” Christian says. The grass tickles the underside of his arms, his palms. He brings his knee up and hugs it to his chest. Lorenzo’s mouth quirks.

“You showing off?” he asks. For a second, Christian thinks he’s talking about the stretch. It’s pretty basic, and Lorenzo knows he’s way bendier than this. Then Lorenzo tips his head towards the cage.

“Oh. No,” Christian says, shrugging against the field as he releases one knee and raises the other. “Just wanted to make sure I didn’t forget how.”

It’s gloomy out, overcast with rain threatening. But the roof is open, and it’s early enough in the day that it’s still bright, throwing Lorenzo’s face into shadow. Christian can still tell he’s rolling his eyes. “It’s been two games.”

Christian’s fishing a little, which is probably shitty of him. He knows how bad Lorenzo feels about the way he’s been batting lately. Christian lets go of his knee and lets his legs splay open, pressing his feet together and his thighs down towards the ground. It’s a great stretch for his hips, but that’s not why he’s doing it.

Casting a glance at the guys on the field, Lorenzo takes a step closer and nudges Christian’s leg with the toe of his shoe. “Now you really are showing off.”

“Maybe,” Christian admits. He deepens the stretch shamelessly. He likes having Lorenzo’s attention on him like this, the smell of grass and the sounds of baseball, their teammates all around them.

“What’re you doing after?”

A slow smile spreads over Christian’s face.

o o o

It’s not the first time they’ve done this. In fact, it’s happened enough now that Christian’s lost count. Sometimes it’s Lorenzo following him home, like he is now, sometimes it’s the other way around. Sometimes they’re in a hotel. One time not too long ago they were in a visiting clubhouse, hidden away and dripping with champagne.

Christian shivers as he pulls into his spot and parks. They’d been monumentally stupid, but tipsy and high on the win, and Lorenzo had let Christian pull him into the trainers’ room by the strap of his goggles. It’s a good memory.

Lorenzo meets him at the lobby door and they ride the elevator together. It’s comfortable, it always is with Lorenzo, just sharing space and breathing together. But there’s a charge in the air that makes the hair on the back of Christian’s neck stand on end.

“You hungry?” Christian asks as he unlocks the door. They had lunch at the ballpark, but enough time has passed that they could eat. 

“Nah,” Lorenzo says, following Christian inside and kicking off his shoes while Christian locks up behind them. “After.”

So that’s how it’s going this time.

Lorenzo backs him up against the door, using his body to get Christian pressed all along the wood. He’s got his hands up, arms bracketing Christian’s head, face intense and close. Christian can see it all right there, tension and anticipation, the slump and the upcoming series. He knows exactly what Lorenzo needs.

And how he needs it.

Sliding his shoulders down, Christian shifts his hips forward, tilting his chin and looking up at Lorenzo through his lashes. He’s got about an inch of height on Lorenzo, but Lorenzo’s body is bigger, solid and thickly muscled where Christian is narrow and lean. He likes feeling smaller, and he knows Lorenzo likes it too.

“Lo,” he says, keeping his voice low and his lips parted. He leaves the rest up to Lorenzo.

The kiss, when it comes, is scorching hot. It’s slow, and thorough, a promise of what’s to come. By the time he pulls back Christian is panting, hands twisted in the fabric of Lorenzo’s shirt, and he’s hard as hell. He wants to push them towards the bedroom, he wants to get their clothes off, but Lorenzo’s running the show.

Their first time had been similar to this. Christian can remember the moment so clearly, when he realized that he was legitimately flirting with his new teammate, and that said new teammate was actually receptive. He remembers inviting Lorenzo over to play video games, and Lorenzo letting that deep, easy chuckle rumble out in response. He’d leaned over, right into Christian’s personal space, and said, “That’s not why I’m coming over, and we both know it.” Christian had been a goner.

He still is. There’s something about Lorenzo’s quiet authority that really does it for Christian. So when Lorenzo says, “Bedroom,” it’s all Christian can do to keep from tripping over his feet as he rushes down the hallway.

Lorenzo’s not bossy, and he doesn’t do the cheesy order-barking thing that Christian has seen in porn. He guides Christian with his hands, or with simple, firm commands. Sometimes they’re just suggestions of commands, like “shirt” which sends Christian’s hands into a flurry, unbuttoning as fast as his fingers let him. Sometimes they’re direct, like “lay back and show me that stretch.” Christian squirms around until he gets his pillow under his neck and shoulders and then spreads his legs.

He’s fully naked, at Lorenzo’s request, and Lorenzo is still wearing his pants. He’s standing next to the mattress, bare chest gleaming, palm sliding over the fly of his jeans. Christian’s hands clench in the sheets, watching him.

“What do you want?” Lorenzo asks. They usually stick to basic stuff, not wanting to chance anything with a game next day. But their Thursday is all press stuff and light workouts, no game until Friday.

“Your call,” Christian says, because it is, in the end. 

“We’re off tomorrow,” Lorenzo says, and Christian squirms a little on the bed. Given enough time he could probably come just from the look on Lorenzo’s face, and the anticipation. Christian nods, and Lorenzo nods back. Then he shucks his jeans and underwear and crawls up between Christian’s spread legs.

He’s ridiculously hot. Like, put together in the best way. His skin on Christian’s feels so good that Christian groans, eyes slipping shut. When he cracks them back open, Lorenzo is smiling at him. It’s not the full-tilt one that lights up a room, but something softer and more private.

“Haven’t even done anything yet,” he says.

“You feel good,” Christian replies. He loops his arms around Lorenzo’s neck and smiles back. Lorenzo shifts his hips until their cocks brush and then everything feels about a million times better.

One thing Christian learned early on is that Lorenzo loves prep. A lot. He loves to take his time with it, working one finger into Christian so slowly that Christian thinks he’s going to scream, before adding a second. Then repeating the process before he gives Christian a third. He’s made Christian come just from that, several times in fact, and he looks incredibly pleased with himself every time.

He doesn’t draw it out like he normally does though. He still takes his time, still brings Christian right up to the edge, mouth roaming under Christian’s jaw, but then he slides his fingers out and reaches for a condom. His eyes are dark, pupils blown huge, and he stares down at Christian while he gets the condom on and lines up. Christian skims his palms up Lorenzo’s biceps, over his shoulders and around the back of his neck, and pulls him down for a kiss just as Lorenzo pushes in.

They groan together, and Christian holds Lorenzo close to him as he starts up a slow and steady pace. He’s got his hands locked behind Lorenzo’s head, and his ankles locked behind Lorenzo’s back, and it takes them no time at all to work up a rhythm together.

“Lo, fuck,” Christian says, bowing his back to try to get Lorenzo deeper.

“Yeah, Chris.” It’s a name Lorenzo only uses in bed, and it makes warmth bloom and spread across Christian’s chest. Lorenzo chases the flush with his mouth, catching one of Christian’s nipples with his teeth. The sharp tug of pain brings Christian right up to the edge, and he gasps. “That’s it,” Lorenzo urges, and then bites down again, harder this time. 

Christian’s orgasm slams through him, his whole body tightening up in one long, rolling wave, before going completely liquid. He sighs up at the ceiling, blinking slowly at Lorenzo as his face comes into view. It’s still tense, but different now. He’s close.

“Come on,” Christian says, and urges him to move. Lorenzo does, snapping his hips and burying his face in Christian’s neck. Christian smooths his hands down Lorenzo’s spine, fingers skidding on damp skin, and presses him forward.

“Fuck, Chris,” Lorenzo groans, thrusts going erratic before he holds himself completely still against Christian, then shudders. Christian can feel Lorenzo pulsing inside him, and drags him into a kiss.

When Lorenzo lifts his head again, his forehead has smoothed out and he’s grinning. 

“You always look so smug,” Christian says. 

“Should I not be?”

“No, you definitely should.” Christian gives Lorenzo another kiss and then pushes at his shoulder until Lorenzo rolls off him, slides to the side.

Christian is a cuddler, and Lorenzo has never seemed to mind. Even when they’re sweaty and covered in come, Lorenzo indulges Christian for a least a few minutes before forcing him up and into the shower. Today he reaches his arms up over his head, muscles rippling as he stretches, before he curls them down and gathers Christian up against his chest. 

They’re quiet for a while, breathing together as their bodies cool down. Christian plucks at Lorenzo’s sparse chest hair with his fingers, slides his foot up and down Lorenzo’s shin. Eventually Lorenzo turns his head and cracks his eyes open.

“I can’t wait to watch you bat against their pitching staff,” he says, and Christian wrinkles his nose. “I’m serious. You’re going to go yard on Kershaw, and it’s going to be amazing.”

“And you’ll be on base, which’ll make it even better.”

Lorenzo screws up his mouth and doesn’t say anything.

“It’ll break, Lo. Right when we need it most. You’ll get on base and I’ll bring you home.”

Lorenzo is quiet, eyes roving over Christian’s face. He doesn’t know why baseball talk sometimes sounds like something else, but he guesses it makes sense. That’s part of how they communicate.

“Sounds good to me,” is what Lorenzo finally says, before he rolls away and to his feet.

They shower, and then they go into the kitchen barefoot in their shorts. Christian’s got chicken, and stuff to make a salad, and they work around each other, chopping and stirring. Christian likes when Lorenzo is in his space, moving around like it’s his too, warming up the generic beige-ness of the condo.

They eat at the table, almost formal except for all the bare skin, and then Christian throws the dishes in the dishwasher and takes Lorenzo’s hand. It’s still early, and they don’t have anything strenuous in the morning, but he wants to get Lorenzo back into bed.

Sometimes they stay the night. Sometimes they go home and see each other at the ballpark the next day. They don’t talk about it, and Christian wonders if they ever will. But for now, he pushes Lorenzo down onto his sheets and slides in next to him, gets them both covered up. They need to rest, so they can do their interviews tomorrow and then start a new series. So Lorenzo can get on base, and Christian can bring him home.

**Author's Note:**

> I really hope this isn't a jinx. Do the baseball gods like porn? *crosses fingers*


End file.
